


September Bloom

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5981976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is more mood than action, more evocation than event. Late life, late love, and Mycroft all reluctant and reserved and trying to be a good person. </p><p>Lestrade's being a good person, too, but defining it a bit differently. (smile)</p><p>Seductive fiction. Hope you like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	September Bloom

The rendezvous and information drop was set for a Saturday afternoon in late September, out at Holmescroft. Mycroft had made his own arrangements months in advance. Those who knew little about him expected him to be the sort of fretful fussbudget who planned everything in advance. Those who knew him well knew he used that trick to disguise his ability to act swiftly and spontaneously when necessary. Sherlock took it largely at face value: boring old Mycroft, stuffy and regulated. Mummy thought he was too determined to be perfect and in control. “Classic eldest,” she would sigh. “A need to excel. Overactive super-ego.”

“You do know Freud’s no longer considered the ultimate authority in analytical circles, Mummy?”

“Fads come, fads go—but the great minds endure.”

Mycroft, sitting in the little library, elbows on the polished oak table, smiled slightly, as memory slipped through his consciousness. Not that this was a good thing, exactly. He was trying to review paperwork and get a head start on next week’s focus on China’s recent “issues” in the world stock markets. But he was home—the one place besides his flat he most felt at ease—and he had memories here. Father pottering around humming to himself as he planned a garden that never was planted. Mummy grading papers and swearing over the inevitable shortcomings of the freshmen. Sherlock racing naked through this very room shouting that he was the prettiest baby.

In Holmescroft he felt rooted. Perhaps even at peace.

Lestrade had waited till the last minute to confirm the rendezvous, but that was only to be expected. Undercover work was like that. Between having to wait on developments in his current assignment and the inevitable peculiarities of a policeman’s life, there was too much chance he would be unable to make it. He’d confirmed the meet, though. Right now he should be slipping through the Old Timber—ancient hardwood trees managed for centuries by the Holmes family. They’d just begun to turn, showing glints of gold and hints of scarlet in among the varied greenwood trees. He’d be wearing something entirely in keeping with a man of no particular importance out for a bit of a walkabout.  He’d reach the back acres, called the “upland meadow” on all the old estate maps, drop down to the stream that ran along the “dairy pastures,” still called that though no cow had grazed those fields for thirty years or more. He’d eventually slide silently up the beaten path that led to the stables, and from there cut through the kitchen gardens into the back entry of the old house.

It was a big building, though not a massive mansion. A secure country squire’s residence. Not that most people could maintain even that these days. Mycroft himself would be in terror of losing it when Father died, if he hadn’t made arrangements to be spared the death duties as a reward for work well done, in place of a knighthood or a medal or some similarly useless prize. The next time he’d been called up to Her Majesty’s sitting room for a discussion of his virtues, he’d cut things short and arranged for whoever followed him to receive the same benefit. Two generations free of death duties. Two more generations the old place could remain in the family. Or at least two transfers of power…Sherlock remained the likeliest to inherit upon Mycroft’s death.

Mycroft had wrapped the entire place up in enough red tape and secured trusts to ensure Sherlock would be hard put to sell it, run it into the ground, or lose it in a poker game with some criminal he was studying.

It was quiet at Holmescroft. There were horses in the stables—mostly lodgers, though. Mycroft rented out stables to locals, defraying some of the costs of the estate. He had a couple living in who watched over things and served as estate managers—two old retired MI6 agents who quite liked it when the occasional counteragent broke in and tried to spy out information on The Iceman. Those two, and the stable manager, and a cluster of local girls working as grooms and exercise riders were the staff. The old house was silent. You could almost hear the dust fall, tumbling down the lances of light stabbing down through the library.

Mycroft poured himself a fresh cup of tea from the cozy-covered teapot, and enjoyed a deep, burning gulp of black tea, still nearly scorching. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back until he faced directly into the sunbeams, and let the little dots dance behind his lids. He felt the sun on his face, and without thinking he gathered himself, contentedly, like a big ginger cat. If he’d been any more feline, he’d have purred.

“Well don’t you look happy!” The London voice was almost as relaxed as Mycroft himself.

He didn’t jump. He must have registered Lestrade’s footprints subconsciously, he thought. Or been so sure from the first note that it was Lestrade that fear never even tapped his spine or shivered his flanks.

“A peaceful afternoon in a place I enjoy. A pot of tea. Sunshine. There’s not much reason not to be happy,” he said, and slowly straightened his head and opened his eyes. He risked a small smile. “Tea?”

“Don’ mind if I do,” Lestrade said. “Nah-nah. I’ll pour.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring milk or sugar.”

“Not a problem. Copper. Drink it how I can get it.” The other man had neat, square hands that moved effectively, handling the cup and saucer, the hooded pot, pouring the gleaming rust-red brew into white porcelain. He raised his cup and drank half at one swig, and sighed. “Bloody hell, Holmes, you have the best damned tea. What do they do, pick it by moonlight on the highest mountains in Sri Lanka, dry it on the bare bellies of nubile virgins, pack it with preserved night-blooming orchids, and send it in little teak coffers to be enjoyed by a lucky few?”

Mycroft permitted himself a slight chuckle. “Twinings. Keemun. Nothing special. I use good water. I brew it properly. I like it strong. Nothing more exotic, I’m afraid.”

Lestrade poured the rest of the cup down his throat, set himself up with a fresh cup, then stretched. He was dressed in a shawl-collared navy-blue jumper of a type commonly worn by sportsmen and fishermen and people who worked out of doors. Mycroft knew it could be purchased at the Army and Navy store for a reasonable price. The cord loops for the buttons were fastened to the sweater-neck with reinforcing tabs of cotton. He could see the rise of a white crew-neck jersey in the turn of the collar. Beneath the jumper Lestrade wore fresh denims, and walking boots of no particular prestige—practical lace-up boots of no great style but near infinite durability. His short hair glittered in the sun. Even from where he stood, Mycroft detected scents of smoke and earth and open air.

He was very beautiful, Mycroft thought, with no great urgency. Mycroft had long since found peace with his inner urges. He could ride the pleasure of a beautiful man much as he rode the pleasure of the sun, and the silence, and the tea. It was all good…his to observe, enjoy, and let pass.

“Do you have news, then?” he said, when Lestrade had finished his stretch.

“Would have canceled if I didn’t.” Lestrade’s tone, amused, suggested that a genius Holmes should have seen the obvious.

Mycroft sniffed. “Give me credit for manners,” he said. “Small talk may not come naturally to me, but I have learned the niceties over the years.”

“That you have. Better than your brother ever will, in any case.” Lestrade sipped more placidly at the tea, now he’d downed his first cup. “I’ve been tracking Mortimer, in the MET’s terrorist division,” he said, then, proceeding with his report without further delay. “You were right. He’s almost certain to have sold out. His contacts are presenting themselves as Mossad. I’m fairly sure they’re Arab Emirate, though. He’s got to be pulled. He’s begun leaking high priority information about prominent British Jews. I suspect he thinks he’s helping keep them safe…but he can’t be trusted, and his contacts certainly can’t.”

“You’ve IDed them and traced them?”

“I’ve got everything I can find out. It will take something like your team to work out their real identities. Passing themselves off under Israeli IDs. I have everything available on them, and I’ve followed this long enough to know where they live. Where they work. AT least some of their other contacts. You’ll need other agents to follow through: I can only do so much from within the MET.” He pushed a thumbdrive across the table. “Here. Six months on Mortimer.”

“Anything else.”

He nodded, and slipped out another thumb drive. “For your eyes only. Someone’s figured out I may be a resource getting to you. For the most part it’s not a problem. I do my work, I deal with Sherlock when there’s a case we can share, and you and I stay apart. But he’s been trying to tag me—traces. Bugs. I’ve been followed a few times for lesser drops with Anthea. I’ve dodged them. But either we have to disprove it—or we have to stop whoever’s on my tail. Or we’ve got to reassign me.”

Mycroft gave a sulky little growl. “How inconvenient. I’d rather not have to train a replacement.”

Lestrade laughed. “Nice to know I’m appreciated.”

Mycroft shrugged, refusing to play into Lestrade’s teasing delivery. “It would be a serious inconvenience. You’re good at what you do…and so usefully placed in respect to both your usual undercover work and your work with my brother. There are no acceptable substitutes available at the moment.”

“Best start training one up, then. Not getting any younger. Even if this isn’t the end, a time will come…”

“By then perhaps I’ll be retired myself. It can be someone else’s problem.”

Lestrade blinked. “You’re younger than me.”

“Genius is a treasure of youth.”

“Bollocks. Age and wisdom are downright cliché, like ham and eggs.”

“Cliché or not, I’m…feeling my age. Slowing down. Time to train someone to take my place then step aside, while they can still call on me in emergencies—and I can still enjoy somewhat of life out from under the weight of duty.”

Lestrade started to protest, but Mycroft lifted a hand to stop him. Instead he poured them both one last cup of tea, sighing as the last coppery drips fell from the spout of the tea pot. They sat in the sun, then, sipping tea, saying nothing.

On finishing, Mycroft looked pensively into his cup. “A shame I don’t brew it loose,” he said. “We could read the tea leaves.”

Lestrade fished in his pocket and pulled out three coins. “I-Ching, if you like.”

“No. There’s a pack of playing cards, but really, I don’t believe any of it. The tea leaves merely seemed…comforting. Something you do to mark the bottom of the pot, the end of the cup, the conclusion of an era.”

“If you retire, what do you want to do, then?”

Mycroft looked out over the lawn of the estate. “I don’t know. Garden, perhaps. Ride—it’s been years since I rode regularly. Adopt a dog. Join the church choir.”

“I don’t believe a word of it. You’d run mad in a matter of weeks.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You’d be surprised. I’m rather good at country life. It’s pleasant, and interesting, and it leaves so much room for other interests. And I doubt I’d give up all my work. I could be like Sherlock—a consulting analyst.”

“You’d want to spend some time in London. Maybe meet someone, settle down?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Oh, no. Highly unlikely. I’ve been burned once, and learned my own limits. No…”

Dark brown eyes studied him from across the table. “Coward,” Lestrade said, but his voice was gentle. “You don’t have to be alone.”

Mycroft studied him, feeling uneasiness stir for the first time that entire afternoon. “You’re hardly one to talk. You could be matched and mated long since. Far more so than I could.”

“Proved that wrong, didn’t I?”

“Now, now. She’s not worth your anger.”

“Not angry at her. Angry at me.”

Mycroft let a single raised brow ask his questions for him.

Lestrade shook his head. “Learned I wasn’t good at it,” he said. “Best to know, ennit?”

“It was hardly your fault.”

“Says the man who won’t even give it a go.”

“If you suggest you could introduce me to someone, I’ll be forced to lie down until the dizziness passes.”

Lestrade snorted, then—a huffy, bear-ish sort of sound. He grinned. “No matchmaker, then?”

“God, spare me.”

“You’d be fine,” Lestrade said, reassuringly. “You’re a good mate. You’d be a good, you know. If you found someone, it would work.”

“However did we get onto this topic?” Mycroft asked, sulking slightly. “I should go make more tea,” he added, rising.

“Coward,” Lestrade said again, gentle and teasing. “You know you’d be fine. You’re bright, you’re still young enough to face the meat market. You’ll do.”

“As if you’d know.”

“Tschk. Don’t tell me you never guessed…” Mycroft turned, honestly surprised. Lestrade’s face was rueful, wry, apologetic. “Hey, there’s reasons I blame myself for how things ended in my marriage. She needed more…” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged, out of words to try to explain.

Mycroft blinked. “Did you…love her?”

“Yes.” Then, staring out the window, he said, “She felt like the competition never ended, though. I don’t think she ever felt safe. And that’s my fault.”

Mycroft frowned, but accepted the other man’s evaluation. For the time being, anyway. He turned and went to the kitchen, happy to find it empty of the caretakers. He heated water, found the tea ball, found the loose tea. When the water was just at a boil he performed the ritual, rinsing the pot, adding the tea ball, pouring the pot full, covering it with the cozy again. He cleared the counter, checked the hob was off, and returned to the library.

Lestrade was on his feet, standing in front of the little fireplace, in front of the chair Sherlock and Mycroft both liked so well. His hands were clasped behind his back.

Mycroft put the tea tray on the table, and turned to look. Once more he thought what a beautiful man Lestrade was.

The thought affected him differently, now.

“And you,” he asked. “Retirement will be calling you, too. Where then?”

“No idea.”

Mycroft thought perhaps the other man sounded unsure. Hesitant. But perhaps not…nor could it be allowed to matter if he did. “You can retrain.”

“I suppose.” He turned and looked at Mycroft. “You should try, you know. While you have time.”

Mycroft shook his head.

“Why not?”

He considered lying. He considered telling the long form of the truth. He settled for a short form he thought might be understood. “Because it would fail.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes. I am afraid I do. It would fail—and it would be my fault. You, of all people, should understand wanting to avoid that.”

“Why your fault?”

Mycroft felt a shiver run through him. “Your wife felt too threatened knowing your attention was drawn by both men and women?”

“Yeah. But…” He didn’t say that Mycroft was single-hearted in his sexuality. He didn’t have to.

Mycroft said, softly, “You know me. You know Sherlock. You know what it is to try to deal with men whose minds are always active, restless, looking for the next new thought. Sherlock at least hungers for people. I am solitary. Reserved. I’m….” He found himself fighting back regret in a way he had not since his college days, and his one try. “I am assured that living with me makes solitary confinement look appealing. Nor can I present a compelling argument otherwise. I suspect the evaluation is quite correct. I don’t do friendship. Why should I expect to be able to do romantic sentiment? Now come—the tea should be just reaching perfection.”

He poured. Both sat drinking their tea, silent.

The sun was warm. Lestrade was beautiful. Mycroft hovered, torn between contentment and melancholy.

Lestrade finished his cup, and turned it in his hands, showing the signs of a man letting a bead of tea chase around and around the bottom angle of the porcelain.

Mycroft refused to be moved. He turned and looked out over his lawns. They were quite beautiful. The  chrysanthemums were just coming into their prime: fluffy, old-fashioned flowers that could have been stolen from a perfect Chinese painting, all in gleaming gold and russet orange. A brilliant pair of Peacock butterflies flirted with each other, performing aerial ballet over the plump blossoms.

Mating flight, Mycroft thought, and shivered.

He felt Lestrade rise, more than saw him. He kept his eyes on the garden, face still, hands holding the cup and saucer neatly. “It would be quite terrible,” he said, softly, “and entirely my fault.”

He felt two hands settle on his shoulders. “You can’t be found guilty in advance of the crime,” Lestrade said. “Believe me. I’m a copper. I know.”

“You’d be so lonely,” Mycroft said, not sure why his throat was so tight, or his hands shaking.

“I like solitude,” Lestrade said, then leaned over his shoulder, took the cup and saucer from him, and set them aside. He gathered Mycroft’s hands, holding them clasped in his own, two knots resting at Mycroft’s shoulders.

“I shouldn’t…”

Instead of answering, Lestrade leaned down, breathed softly in Mycroft’s ear, kissed lightly.

“Oh…” Even to Mycroft’s own ears, the sound was both wanton and wistful. He leaned back, let his head rest on Lestrade’s stomach. Sighed with contentment when Lestrade released his hands only to stroke Mycroft’s face, massage his brow. “Oh…”

Leaning over once more, Lestrade whispered, “Let’s go be alone together…”

And Mycroft, seduced, sighed only, “Yes.”

 


End file.
